


Shiganshina Blues

by matchka



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Gen, and then other stuff happened, best friends who happened to have kissed that one time, dorks falling in love, the future is a scary place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchka/pseuds/matchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s had just shy of nineteen years. It’s a good run, all things considered.</p><p>“This is it,” she says, offering him a shaky smile. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>“No,” Connie whispers, staring up at her with grave eyes. “Not if I can help it.”</p><p>And he’s up before she can stop him, running full pelt for the door; he’s got a quarter of a gas tank and a single blade and a cut to the scalp so deep she can see bone gleaming white as he runs, leaving her stranded and alone, and she’s never loved him more than in that moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiganshina Blues

The room is silent save for the sound of ragged breathing, and the twin percussion of frightened hearts against too-tight ribcages.

 

They hide under the table, peering up under the cover of the tablecloth at the window, thick with old dust. The Titans are out there, still. The thunder of their footsteps shake the timbers of this little shack, sending dust and splinters floating down from the eaves.

 

Her leg is broken. She’s certain of it; the sick throb of her shin seems to reverberate all the way up her spine, settling in the base of her skull like pooled fluid. Connie’s face is ribboned with bright blood; he’s half-carried, half-dragged her all this way, bleeding and exhausted, and they’re still not safe. It feels like they’ll never be safe.

 

They came out here, to Shinganshina, in search of the mythical basement. All of them. But something went wrong along the way, and Sasha doesn’t know what happened to the others.

 

As they sit there, huddled together in terrified silence, Sasha feels his blood-slick hand creep into her palm, seeking the safety of familiar skin. Her fingers close tight around his, and she runs a callused thumb over his split knuckles, over the veins and the small bones; she's as intimately acquainted with them now as her own.

 

She’s had just shy of nineteen years. It’s a good run, all things considered.

 

“This is it,” she says, offering him a shaky smile. “Isn’t it?”

 

“No,” Connie whispers, staring up at her with grave eyes. “Not if I can help it.”

 

And he’s up before she can stop him, running full pelt for the door; he’s got a quarter of a gas tank and a single blade and a cut to the scalp so deep she can see bone gleaming white as he runs, leaving her stranded and alone, and she’s never loved him more than in that moment.

 

*

 

They’re twelve when they meet, two kids a long way from home and out of their depth here, where people speak formally, and eat with utensils, and their backwater accents are horribly obvious. It makes sense that they find each other, that first evening at dinner. She sits beside him without asking, eats her stew in silence; she holds the spoon awkwardly, like it’s terribly foreign to her.

 

“You’re from Dauper, right?” he says – he’s never seen someone drain an entire bowl of stew so fast. Dauper’s not so far from his own hometown. He’s heard the people there are uncultured savages, people who don’t chew their bread properly and talk with their mouths full, and who track pigshit into their houses on the soles of their clumsy mountainfolk boots.

 

She nods, wiping her mouth with her hand. “And you’re from Ragako,” she says. She lifts the bowl to her mouth, drinking the gravy pooled at the bottom; she’s got a small, pink tongue like a kitten’s. “Is it true you people marry sheep?”

 

Connie’s so taken aback by this that he bursts into laughter, and after a moment’s pause she does too, a bright sound like water running over stones, and by the time they’re finished everyone’s staring at them, the two hick kids cackling like witches over nothing at all. She’s pink-cheeked and smiling, eyes bright with mirth, and he thinks that maybe Dauper folk aren't all bad.

 

“I’m Connie,” he says, grinning, and sticks out a hand.

 

When she shakes his hand, her fingers engulf his entirely.

 

“Hi, Connie,” she says. “I’m Sasha.”

 

*

 

After that they come as a pair. They’re a double-act, goofing off during training, playing stupid pranks on people, and most of the time they don’t even have to plan it – Connie’ll get this look in his eyes and Sasha will know, instinctively, that he’s about to layer mash potato on Jean’s chair, or throw a lump of bread at Ymir and pretend it wasn’t him. Or she’ll give him the look and he’ll boost her up, without needing to be told, so she can clamber up on Reiner’s shoulders and initiate a piggyback war.

 

(She lets him win, mostly; it's funny to watch him basking in the glory of his victory, taking absurd pride in being the best for once.)

 

Some nights, they sneak out of the dorms together and head for the fields, where they spend the early hours training. Connie’s a little self-conscious about his height, his build; the others rib him mercilessly, and although it’s all in jest – mostly – he takes it to heart. He can’t not. So she trains with him, helps him grow stronger and tougher. And in return, he'll share little bits of his life with her, when it’s just the two of them running laps in the dark and nobody around to hear them. How everyone back home thinks he’ll come crawling back when the training gets tough, how his parents are certain he'll never marry, how he got a buzzcut because some asshole told him it was compulsory in the military – he tells her he used to have curly hair, and she laughs at that, rubbing her palm over his prickly scalp with something like affection. He tells her these things so easily, like he knows she’ll never use them against him. Like he doesn’t even have to think about trusting her, it comes so naturally.

 

She thinks he’d probably look sweet with curly hair.

 

Reiner and Bertholdt sometimes join them in their afterdark expeditions. Reiner insists on referring to Connie as ‘little soldier’; the first time it happens, Sasha can almost see his heart swelling with pride, and she wants to hug Reiner for it but he’s so big she’s afraid he’d crush her with his arms. The two older boys watch as Connie and Sasha sprint at full pelt, each desperately trying to outdo the other; his tongue’s hanging out of his mouth like an excited puppy, and her eyes are streaming, and they both look like the biggest idiots in the world but when he tackles her to the ground, tumbling in a violent tangle of limbs and bodies, dizzy and breathless but laughing still, she can’t imagine the world without him in it.

 

*

 

(Clutching her broken shin and blinking back tears, she realises she still can’t imagine a world like that, and she prays – to the archaic gods of her village, to the Walls, to the Titans themselves – that she’ll never have to.

 

 _Bring him back_ , she asks. She won’t cry. She doesn’t cry anymore. _He’s all I have. Bring him back safe.)_

 

*

They’re fourteen when they kiss for the first time.

 

Sasha’s peeling potatoes and Connie’s arranging the peelings into amusing shapes – _look_ , he tells her, pointing at a particularly arcane display of twisted potato-peel – _it’s Bertholdt first thing in the morning._ And she laughs, because he’s an idiot, and at this point in Connie’s life – graduation looming and the future uncertain – making Sasha laugh is the one thing that’s guaranteed to make things better. When she smiles, there's a slow, pleasant burn in his chest, like the honey-liquor Franz sometimes shares on cold nights.

 

They start talking. Connie takes half the potatoes, although it’s not his day to peel them. They sit alone in the dining hall, cracking dumb jokes and throwing peel at one another without really putting any effort into it. Sasha’s talking idly about the other girls – she’s sort of hinted at a crush on Mikasa before, which is not so unusual, Connie thinks, everyone’s a little bit taken with her and anyway, at this age it’s hard to differentiate between a crush and plain old admiration.

 

(Connie’s struggling a little with this himself right now.)

 

“…she’s just so _pretty_ , though,” Sasha says, wiping her hands on her skirt. She's got little bits of peel in her hair, and a look of intense concentration on her face. “I mean, they all are really. Christa’s all perfect like a little doll, and Annie…I mean, she looks like she could kill you just by staring, but she’s so _elegant_ …”

 

And Connie says, entirely without thinking, “Eh. You’re much prettier.”

 

There’s a sudden thump as a potato rolls into the bucket. And he’s acutely aware of Sasha’s eyes on him then, and the amused half smile playing at her lips, and a blush blooms across his cheeks before he can do a damn thing about it.

 

“What was that?” she asks. She sounds a little amazed, as if Connie’s just told her he’s got a third eye in his bellybutton, or that he can commune with the dead. But it’s out there, now, and he can’t exactly _un-_ say it, although he’d probably trade everything he owns for the chance to do just that.

 

He stares fixedly down at the peeler in his hands, unable to meet her gaze. “Said you’re pretty,” he mutters, hoping she won’t hear him, hoping she’ll just pretend he never said anything – maybe stuff some potato peelings up her nose and make out like it’s a moustache, which is her usual go-to for quiet moments. Her total stillness is unnerving. And Connie thinks, a little angrily, _all I said was you’re pretty, it’s not like I proposed marriage or anything_.

 

And then her hands are on his shoulders, turning him to face her; she lifts his chin with her thumb, and all he can think, stupidly, is _her hands smell just like potatoes_ when she leans down and plants a slow, shy kiss on his lips…

 

…and pulls back, flushed and triumphant, like she’s just won a bet or something.

 

“Thank you,” she says, resuming potato duties, like everything’s normal, and she definitely hasn’t just kissed him.

 

“You’re welcome,” he replies, a little stunned.

 

They don’t talk about the kiss after that. It's not a conscious decision. It just never comes up. They go about their business as normal, pulling idiot stunts in training – Sasha gets tangled up in her wires, hanging upside-down from a tree like a bat without wings, and Connie laughs so hard and for so long that she's got a nosebleed by the time he finally helps her down.

 

Their midnight training sessions happen a few times a week. They help one another peel vegetables, wash dishes, scrub training gear in the giant, soap-filled barrel that passes for a washtub. (Sasha coats Connie's head in soap suds, an experiment, she declares, to see what he'd look like with curly hair. They both get reprimanded for wasting cleaning supplies. The punishment is, as always, food-related.)

 

They're best friends, who just happen to have kissed one time. That's all.

 

(He can still feel the gentle pressure of her mouth on his weeks later; lying in his bunk one night, he touches his fingers to his lips, remembering the warmth of her, and he wonders if it actually happened at all, or whether it was some strange and pleasant dream.)

 

*

 

Years later, blood stinging his eyes and salty on his lips, he still remembers that kiss; despite all those that have happened since, and everything else that's passed between them, the memory is vivid and bright, perfectly preserved. And as he leaps up into the air and flies, swinging into the peripheral vision of the Titan just ahead, he thinks he probably should have kissed her before he ran out here like an idiot. It would’ve been poetic.

 

The Titan's head pivots slowly on its thick, stupid neck.

 

Its eyes meet his.

 

As Connie closes the distance, blade raised, teeth bared, he thinks _this is for you_. _It's always been for you._

*

 

The night they graduate, a small group of them sneak out into the fields and get drunk.

 

Someone - probably Ymir - gets their hands on what must be the foulest-tasting liquor in existence, a cloudy liquid no doubt concocted in some Garrison officer's washtub. It tastes like death going down, but it seems to get more and more tolerable the more you drink. At least, that's what Sasha thinks, observing the way the others chug the stuff down. She's had enough so that the edges of things are pleasantly softened, a little sparkly, even, but not so much that she can't walk, or think, or function. (Not like Bertholdt, who doesn't realise Connie's topping up his tankard whenever he's not looking, and has probably imbibed an entire bottle all to himself. He's grinning stupidly, one arm slung around Reiner's shoulders, regaling a bored-looking Annie with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Sasha’s never seen him so lively.)

 

Connie, for his part, is more interested in pranking drunks than actually getting drunk himself. He's learned not to make himself vulnerable: his height makes him an easy target. He's a ball of energy tonight, a tiny lightning-bolt dashing through the crowd, causing mischief; he darts in and out of Sasha’s vision, turning her dizzy with the effort of chasing him.

 

By the time he comes to find her, she’s pleasantly muzzy-headed, and he’s grinning from ear to ear, having successfully convinced a cheerfully drunk Marco to pinch Jean’s ass. And Jean’s still sober enough that he’s embarrassed half to death about the whole thing, but Marco’s got an arm wrapped around his waist, nuzzling his neck, and Jean’s face is so red he looks like he’s about to melt into a puddle. “I better get a ‘thank-you’ at least,” Connie whispers conspiratorially.

 

He’s got eyes the colour of honey, Sasha thinks.

 

And then, impulsively, she grabs his arm, drags him away from the party and the bonfire and the bottle of moonshine being furtively passed around like a dirty secret. His bemused protests are lost beneath the crackle of the flames, and the rush of blood in Sasha’s ears. She drags him out into the woods, where moonlight filters through the branches and there’s no sound but twigs snapping beneath their feet. His eyes are wide, bright even in the dark, and she smiles as she reaches down, grabs his face in clumsy hands and kisses him. It’s a violent mash of lips and teeth and it’s just about the least romantic thing Sasha’s ever experienced, but she’s not interested in romantic right now. She just wants Connie to kiss her. And when he pulls away, gasping for air, she lets out a pathetic little whine, pawing at his face until he grabs her hands, holds her at arm’s length and says “what the hell just happened?”

 

She’s stronger than him; she shoves him up against the tree, both hands pinned high above his head. Her fingers encircle his wrists; she can feel his pulse, rapid, like a frightened rabbit. This time, when she kisses him, it’s a little more graceful, though she can still taste the copper on his lips where her teeth split the skin. And he kisses back, this time; he’s nervous and confused and utterly at her mercy, but they’ve been dancing around this for months now, pretending they’ve never thought impurely about one another. Sasha’s tired of pretending, even if it has taken a little liquid courage to do anything about it. And his mouth feels good against hers, warm and pliant. He acquiesces to her so easily, lets her lead, threads his fingers tentatively through her hair.

 

“You’re drunk,” he mumbles, when she stops to catch her breath. “I can taste it.”

 

“I'm only a little tipsy,” she replies, which is mostly true. _Mostly_.

 

He wrestles out of her grasp, finally, and when she tries to pin him again he wraps both arms around her, squeezing her so tight the air rushes out of her in one short gasp. Gently, he pulls her down to the ground, easing her slowly so they’re both sat up against the trunk of the tree, Sasha leaning against him.

 

He rests his chin on her shoulder. She can feel the burn of his face against her skin.

 

“You’re drunk,” he says, quiet. “And that makes this awkward.”

 

(In the years to come, they'll talk about this moment, and Connie will eventually admit that it wasn't chivalry that made him stop, but sheer nervousness.)

 

“ _You’re_ making this awkward,” she says, a little childishly, and he doesn’t reply. He holds her for a while, humming softly, and she realises she'd forgotten how sweet he can be, how strangely shy he gets when he’s nervous. She shifts in his arms so she can wrap a loose arm around his waist, resting her cheek against his chest, and he seems amenable to that, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. He’s warm, and comfortable despite the bones of him, and she closes her eyes. Just for a minute, she thinks. Just to breathe in the scent of him, woodsmoke and skin and clean linen.

 

She falls asleep there, against the tree, lulled by the rhythm of his heart.

 

*

 

She’s visibly hungover the next morning, and his bones ache to the marrow, but as they disentangle themselves from one another, he smiles, a little nervously. And she smiles back, still beautiful even with her hair all ragged, like a bird's nest, and the grey-blue circles beneath her eyes.

 

When they return, a little sheepishly, to the barracks, Reiner greets them both with an eyebrow raised so high it looks likely to leave his forehead entirely. And Jean - probably still pissed at Connie for the Marco butt-pinching episode, humourless asshole - says, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Wow, Springer, you look like shit. What the hell did you two get up to last night?"

 

He makes to scurry off, head down, face so red it feels as if it might burn to cinders. He feels Sasha's hand on his shoulder, and he's embarrassed to face her after that, but she just quirks him a little smile and says "he's just jealous because Marco drunkenly groping his ass is the closest he'll ever get to getting laid." She shrugs. "Let them think what they want. I don't mind."

 

Then, in front of everyone, she gives him a light peck on the cheek and strolls off, far too cheerful for someone as hungover as she is. And although it's as innocent a gesture as ever passed between two people, the boys stare at him with something close to amazement - how, of all people, did this idiot midget get laid before them? Connie protests, indignant, tries unsuccessfully to put the record straight, but his reputation is cemented in that moment.

 

(Sasha thinks it's hilarious.)

 

*

 

Sasha hobbles up, out into the hallway, dragging her injured leg behind her; she clings to the walls for stability, each step agonising, but she has to know. Sometimes, people just disappear, and the natural conclusion is that they were eaten, or pulverised, leaving only shards of bone and teeth behind. But she remembers Marco, still. She remembers Jean, catatonic and speechless, carrying Marco's diminished, broken body in his arms, and all he could tell them was that he'd died alone.

 

If Connie is going to die - and if Connie dies, she surely will too, trapped and wounded and surrounded by Titans, a rabbit in a trap - then she wants to be there. She wants to bear witness to the last moments of his life. He deserves that, at least.

 

She reaches the doorway. The floorboards are speckled with bright droplets of blood, and she peers out into the courtyard, squinting in the bright light.

 

And she sees Connie descend, quick as a bullet, blade gleaming and stained already with Titan-blood, and the third Titan crumples to the ground, shaking the very foundations of the building around her.

 

Three dead Titans. One blade. A quarter of a gas tank.

 

They - Erwin, Captains Levi and Ackermann, Squad Leaders Kirschtein and Arlert - always said Connie wasn't the brightest, wasn't sharp enough to lead squads or talk tactics, and it took them years to realise that Connie's strength was not in critical thought but in _instinct_ , an innate awareness of when to strike, when to engage, when to order a retreat. When to conserve gas, and when to fight tooth and nail.

 

Nobody has ever died under Connie's command.

 

The shadow of the fourth Titan eclipses his bloodied, exhausted form; he peers up, wiping the blood from his brow with his sleeve. His teeth are bared, and he looks as dangerous as she's ever seen him, a cornered, bloodied animal willing to give everything. Willing to die fighting, if he has to.

 

Slowly, the Titan's hand descends.

 

 

*

 

The Survey Corps is an education in acknowledging terror and proceeding anyway; in the mixed exhilaration and despair of being the only one in your squad to come home alive.

 

Sasha knows she could lose Connie every single time they venture out beyond Wall Rose. It makes her sharper, more alert, braver. Her fear of Titans never diminishes, but she learns to make use of it. She learns that to fight Titans, and to succeed, one must first identify what they're fighting for.

 

She's not fighting only for Connie, but for anyone who's ever cared deeply for another: parents, cradling babies in their arms and praying that they may never grow to hear Titan feet pounding outside the house. Children, awaiting letters from older siblings in the Training Corp, knowing that someday the letters might stop coming. Lovers, laying quiet in the still of night, wondering how long they have left together.

 

In her first year, Sasha Braus kills three Titans single-handedly, and assists in the dispatch of twelve more. In her second year, that number rises: six Titans to herself, fifteen assists. Captain Levi praises her sharp instincts, and allows her to use a bow in the field. With her pinpoint accuracy and Connie's lightning speed the two of them form a formidable team, Sasha blinding Titans while he swoops in, a tiny bird of prey, and finishes the job. They read each other's movements like they've known one another all their lives: she knows when he's ready to strike, when he's off-balance and needs time to regroup.

 

(Levi says that a person who fights for a purpose is ten times more dangerous, and Sasha understands now, know that he's right.

 

She wonders what, or who, Levi is fighting for.)

 

They sleep together for the first time a few days before Sasha turns seventeen. It's as clumsy and awkward an experience as she'd expected, and somehow that doesn't matter at all; elbows in delicate places and dead legs and fits of giggles that cease when they finally figure it out, slow and a little hesitant, because he's scared of hurting her, and she's scared to tell him it's fine, it's nowhere near as bad as Ymir told her it'd be, all those years ago.

 

("It's supposed to get better after the first time," Ymir had said, a little dismissively. "But honestly, it never does."

 

Sasha nodded, took mental notes along with the other girls, but she hadn't taken Ymir too seriously; she'd long suspected that sex with Ymir must be like fucking a sandpit. She’d probably shrivel and die if she were confronted with a naked man. But she always seemed to know everything, wise beyond her years.

 

In hindsight, it all makes sense.)

 

Afterwards, lazing together in the warm evening light pouring through the windows, he plants a lazy kiss on her nose and says, sleepy, "I love you."

 

"You're just saying that because I let you touch my boobs," Sasha replies, but she's a little giddy at the possibility; he's half-asleep and high on endorphins, and she's not sure whether he actually _means_ it...

 

He smiles, poking her belly with his index finger, and she yelps, undignified; she's always been ticklish and he knows it. "They're not _that_ nice," he says, mumbling a little now, because he's on the verge of dozing off.

 

"I don't know," she says, and pulls him closer so they're tucked against one another, a perfect fit; his arms are gentle around her waist, palms warm against her back, and he'll probably wake with a dead arm and blame it on her, but that doesn't matter. "You seemed pretty enthralled earlier."

 

She feels the gentle vibration of his laughter, the sound of it low in his throat.

 

"Love you _and_ your boobs," he says, almost inaudible, and then he's asleep.

 

Sasha lies there awhile, listening to his breathing deepen, threaten to escalate into a snore. Her cheek rests against his hair, spiky fuzz prickly and familiar. Maybe he _thinks_ he loves her, and maybe he actually does (and maybe she thinks she loves him too, although the enormity of it terrifies her and excites her in equal measures) but she knows she's glad they have this, whatever _this_ is. A little bit of hope in a world that seems a little bleaker with each day that passes.

 

*

 

She must fall asleep too, because suddenly it's dark, and there are others present: Jean, arm hanging limply from the bunk overhead, Eren and Armin in their bunks at the far end of the room, snoring gently. She extracts herself from Connie's arms; he's so soundly asleep he doesn't even notice. Quietly, she gathers her clothes and slips them back on, tucking her boots beneath her arm as she tiptoes out, bare feet light against the floorboards. Of course, they've seen her, so this is all horribly redundant, but she wants to maintain some semblance of dignity at least.

 

As she reaches the door, she hears the worn springs of Jean's bunk creak beneath him as he shifts his weight, rolling onto his side. She catches a brief glimpse of his face, obscured by blankets, hair sticking out in tufts like a squirrel's tail.

 

He doesn't say anything, but he raises his hand in a half-assed 'thumbs up gesture', and she grins to herself all the way back to her dorm. Because Jean is an asshole, and there's no way he's going to keep this a secret, but he's also her friend. And anyway, she's not so sure she minds.

 

*

 

(She says it back, eventually: Connie sustains a fall during training one day, hitting his skull hard when he lands. The first thing he sees when he regains consciousness is Sasha’s face, furiously blinking back tears - although the red rims of her eyes give the game away – and he’s groggy as hell, brain a heavy weight in his aching skull, but when she leans forward and whispers “Don’t ever leave me, you dumbass. I love you” he swears the pain dulls, just a little bit.)

 

*

 

The Titan's hand seems to move in slow motion, and he's powerless to stop it; Connie's too tired, too weak, clothes soaked through with blood - some of it Titan, but mostly his own. It plucks Connie from the ground between its thumb and forefinger, a child picking daisies, lifting him high, a slow ascent upwards. His blade tumbles to the ground, useless. And Connie's silent the entire time, eyes closed, because there's nothing left in him now. He's running on empty, and all there is to do now is acquiesce to the inevitable.

 

He's never been the praying kind, but as the Titan's fingers press against his ribcage, and he realises he can no longer fill his lungs, he fires off a few: prayers to the god of death to please, make it quick. And please, _please_ , leave Sasha the fuck out of it.

 

The sick-sweet smell of the Titan's breath is thick in his throat; a rich, carrion smell, like blood drying in the hot sun. If he's lucky, he thinks, it'll bite him in two before it swallows him.

 

He's already halfway into the damp cavity of the Titan's mouth when the sound comes: a wounded animal scream echoing through the ruined village. He opens his eyes and wishes immediately that he hadn't, because there's a severed, rotting arm there, pinioned between two teeth, and he'd probably vomit if there were anything in his stomach. And the teeth come down, a slow guillotine sawing through the flesh and bone of his ankle, and all he feels is a dull surprise at how little it actually hurts.

 

They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die, but that’s not what Connie sees. It’s all the things he’ll never get to do. The clutch of fat little children he’ll never have (curly hair, like their father, with their mother’s dark, lively eyes and, with any luck, her height too.) Things he’s never shared with Sasha, but hoped to, someday.

 

Suddenly there's a wet, tearing sound, and the Titan falters; it pitches briefly and nauseatingly sideways, taking Connie with it, and he realises as he swings free of the Titan's mouth - less one foot, now - that there's a wire running all the way up into the Titan's eye, hook embedded deep into the white.

 

The Titan's fingers squeeze hard. He swears he hears a rib snap, somewhere very far away.

 

Connie peers down through the haze of his own greying vision, and there's Sasha, on her knees in the dirt, and she's pulling with all her might, trying to force the Titan to lose balance, topple over, let Connie go. The second wire shoots up from her belt, hits the Titan in the face but bounces off, unable to find purchase. She swears under her breath, readies herself to fire again

 

"Sasha," he says, with the last of the air still in his lungs. "Run."

 

The last thing he sees before everything goes black is the blade in Sasha's hand, and the look of grim determination in her eyes as she stumbles to her feet. And he knows, as sure as he knows that he's not getting that foot back, that the last thing on her mind right now is running.

 

*

 

They're talking, one night, the way idiot boys do when it's quiet and they can't sleep. Connie, Jean, Armin and Eren, the last men standing, so to speak. They gather on Armin's bunk, where the light from the window is the brightest, chasing away the dark shadows that still, despite their age, haunt their dreams.

 

"Do you love her?" Armin asks, suddenly, and the unexpectedness of the question leaves Connie momentarily speechless. Of course, they all know about him and Sasha, same way they all know what's up with Danchou and Levi; they don't talk about it, usually, but Armin’s mind is forever conjuring questions.

 

Connie’s about to answer when Eren interjects. “How the hell would any of us know about love?” he says – not cruelly, but with the easy cynicism they’ve all come to use as a shield. And Connie doesn’t want to argue – he’s never been too shy to share an opinion but this is personal. He’ll tell Sasha he loves her as many times as she wants to hear it, but he’s scared to admit it to these people – his friends, the people he trusts most in this world – because then it’ll be real, concrete, and the universe will know just how much Connie Springer has to lose.

 

“I don’t see why not,” Jean says. He’s quieter than usual, gazing out of the window, knees drawn to his chest. He’s still a little gangly, carrying his sudden increase in height like he’s not sure what to do with it, but there’s something assured about him these days. It’s as if he’s finally figured out his place in the world. “We know about fear, and hatred, and loss. We know how it feels to mourn someone we’ve lost. Why wouldn’t we be capable of love?” He looks over at them. “It’s not a matter of age, or maturity, but what we _know_. And we – all of us – we’ve seen enough. And I’m pretty sure we know enough.”

 

The haunted look in his eyes is enough to steer the conversation onto other, lighter matters, and they don’t talk about love again. And Connie’s never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but in that moment, he thinks he understands.

 

 

*

 

(It takes everything Sasha has to take that last Titan down, and it’s the messiest kill she’s ever performed: she’s got no gas, and one functioning leg, and she’s all but scaling the Titan with her bare hands, using its blindness to scramble up. Her broken leg is on fire, and she can barely see through the haze of her tears, but she will not let this fucking abomination take Connie away from her.

 

When she makes the strike – messy, inexpert, but enough – she has never felt more triumphant. She falls with the Titan, lets the momentum of it take her down, and the wind feels good in her hair.

 

If she closes her eyes, it almost feels like she’s flying.)

 

*

 

Sasha tears strips from his cloak and ties off the stump of his foot as best she can, dragging them both under the scant cover of a partially-collapsed roof. He’s so light in her arms; drained of blood, he’s bone and skin and too-cold flesh, eyes closed, chest rising and falling so shallowly she has to watch closely to be sure it hasn’t stopped. _If I can just get him through the night_ , she thinks, because she has to believe he has a chance.

 

Sasha sings quietly as the dark closes in; songs from her childhood, in a dialect Connie barely understands. And songs Connie taught her, in his own strange dialect, so similar to her own. He doesn’t stir, and she wonders what will happen when the sun rises again, and new Titans arrive, attracted by the scent of their blood and fear. They can’t run. They can’t even crawl.

 

She dozes fitfully; her hearing is acute, a hunter’s hearing, and every sound is a potential threat. The night seems to last forever. She shares what scant warmth she can with Connie, though she’s shivering now, cold creeping in beneath the skin to chill her aching bones. Her fingers gently run through his hair: bloody, matted curls, because she’d insisted he grow it out, and he’s never known how to say no to her. One hand rests beneath his jaw, finger pressed lightly where his pulse should be, and it’s weak, but he’s fighting. That’s what Connie does. He fights, even when it looks hopeless, and the morning seems a long way away.

 

The sky begins to turn pink in the east, and the newborn sun struggles to breach the horizon. And just when her hope is beginning to run dry, she hears a sound. A low rumble, synchronised: not the mindless thump of Titan feet but the clack of hooves on dry earth, running in tandem. And unless she’s mistaken – and Sasha is never mistaken – the horses are headed their way.

 

“Connie,” she whispers. Her lips are numb and useless and she’s so fucking _cold_ , but she lowers her face so she’s speaking in his ear. “I think they’re coming back for us.”

 

The sun is rising. The Titans will come soon, scenting blood like wolves. The horses are tiny black shapes in the distance, but they’re a long way off, and Titans cover a lot of ground. Will they find them here, cold and broken but hanging on by a thread? Will Connie last that long?

 

As if he can hear her thoughts, he stirs a little, peering blearily up at her. And he looks like shit, blood caked hair and pale, dirty face - barely able to lift his head, let alone focus – but Sasha thinks he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. “Am I dead?” he mumbles, confused.

 

The steady rhythm of the horses is almost loud now, dust rising on the eastern horizon. And there’s a second sound, somewhere to the west. The slow thunder of Titan feet, close, and growing closer, shaking tiles on the roof overhead.

 

“No,” Sasha says, wrapping her fingers around his cold hand. He gives her hand a weak little squeeze, fingers trembling. She chooses the safe narrative, the one she wants so badly to believe in, because even as the horses draw near, so do the Titans. Her arms tighten around him. They’ll never take him. Not while she still draws breath. “We’re safe now, Connie. We made it. Let’s go home.”

 

As his eyes slip shut, she swears she sees his mouth contort into a tiny smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm the biggest sucker for Springles. And this was supposed to be pure fluff but apparently I am completely incapable of writing anything happy.


End file.
